


how to win at losing

by shuofthewind



Series: Le Monde Solaire [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Drabble, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, F/F, F/M, Female Bilbo, Fluff, Hobbit Courting, Multi, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, attempted humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:44:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuofthewind/pseuds/shuofthewind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hobbit culture, when a couple begins courting, one side puts a courting suit to the family of the other, in order to garner community approval.</p><p>Blue has no immediate family to answer this question. Kíli and Tauriel, however…</p><p>[<em>“You two are ridiculous. Am I the only one of the three of us who hasn’t angered anyone?”</em></p><p><em>“No,” says Kíli, “but you’re the only one of us that Thorin owes a life-debt or three to, so technically you’re the only one he can’t actually kill honorably.”</em>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	how to win at losing

**Author's Note:**

> Silly fluff to tide you over until smut because apparently I can't write one without the other overflowing. 
> 
> ...hm, kinky.
> 
> There is literally no plot to this but it's cute so w/e.

“I think you should do it.”

Blue scowls, and glances up from her knitting project. Tauriel is slowly decimating a stack of arrows by her feet, firing shaft after shaft into a distant target; there’s a rhythmic _thunk_ ing noise coming from the far end of the range as they hit the (metaphorical) bull’s-eye. Next to Blue, Kíli leans back on his hands, tilting his head to stare at the high stone ceilings. His lips are twitching at the corners. She fights off the urge to dig one of her knitting needles into the meat of his thigh (so conveniently near at hand, considering his leg is flush against hers) and then goes back to her scarf. “I don’t see why _I_ ought to,” she says. “Considering I’m technically the youngest of us, which means, by Shire rules, it should be you or Tauriel. It’s always the elder in the relationship that declares an official suit.”

“Well, it can’t be me,” says Kíli. “He’s my uncle. You two are supposed to be petitioning for my hand. That’s what you said.”

Tauriel mutters something under her breath, and looses another arrow. It lands hard enough to shake dust out of the straw target. It also lands in the target’s groin. Blue bites back laughter at the look on Kíli’s face.

“It’s not _petitioning for your hand_ ,” she corrects, and nudges him with her knee. “I told you, when two—when people are courting, and they decide they’d like to embark on something more serious, one brings up the situation to the other’s family, to make sure that nobody objects, truly. You can still continue to court if the family _does_ object, but it’s…frowned upon. Sort of.”

Kíli glances her, and tips a little to knock his head gently against hers. Somehow he manages to say _we’re not in the Shire_ and _it’s all right_ and _I love you_ all at once, and it makes the hard knot in her stomach untwist. But only a little.

“Uncle likes you,” he says, and the knot twists right back up again. “And he’s known about the bead since Rivendell, it won’t surprise him.”

For an instant, all she can think of is that moment on the stairs, Thorin with a blade at her throat and Smaug bearing down on them over dunes of gold. _The Arkenstone._ But the Arkenstone is gone. She shakes it out of her mind.

“If we are to follow the Shire traditions in this,” says Tauriel, lowering her bow and frowning at the target (it now has three arrows sprouting from between its legs, along with six in its head), “Blue and I ought to both speak to the King. And you two,” she adds, peeking at Kíli, “would be speaking with my guardian.”

Kíli turns sheet white. Blue blinks at them both. “Guardian?”

“The head of Kíli’s family is Thorin,” says Tauriel. She actually looks a little smug. “But I was raised by Thranduil from when I was only a few decades old. If we were to follow Shire traditions, then the pair of you would be speaking to the Elvenking.”

Blue can’t decide whether she wants to laugh or cry. Possibly both. She knits another row in her scarf (a winter gift for Balin). Tauriel unstrings her bow, sets it to the side, and then takes the spot on Blue’s left. Her cotton shirt is damp with sweat. Blue sets her head against Tauriel’s shoulder anyway, and Tauriel drops a kiss on the part in her hair. Goosebumps prickle up Blue’s spine.

“Honestly,” Blue says. “You two are ridiculous. Am I the only one of the three of us who hasn’t angered anyone?”

“No,” says Kíli, “but you’re the only one of us that Thorin owes a life-debt or three to, so technically you’re the only one he can’t actually kill honorably.”

“You’re his nephew,” says Tauriel. “He cannot kill you with honor, either. Nor can Thranduil take out his ire upon you, as you are a prince of Erebor. To do so would invite your uncle’s enmity more surely than all that has occurred thus far.”

“I think you should be more worried about Legolas, to be honest,” says Blue, unable to help herself. Kíli scowls at her, and rests his chin in his hands. “But that’s just me.”

They all consider this a moment.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” says Blue, after an image of a dead and/or mangled Kíli flashes in front of her eyes, Legolas standing over his body with bloody knives. “It’s—we’re not in the Shire, and I mean, it’s a bit too complicated, honestly, considering everything, and I’m fairly certain everybody knows already anyway because of—well—I mean—”

“No,” says Kíli. “We’ve already done the declaration the dwarrow way, with the beads, and the elf way with the knots. We’ll do it the hobbit way as well.”

A little glow builds in her chest. On impulse, Blue catches his hand and presses her lips to the back of it, and then turns it and kisses his palm. Kíli takes a sudden breath, his pupils blowing wide, and he leans forward, but at that exact moment Dwalin stomps in with his axes. He’s trailed by a humming Bifur, who waggles his eyebrows at the sight of them. Dwalin nods sharply at their bench, his eyes lingering on Blue’s hand and Kíli’s, and then he turns away. It’s only when Dwalin’s back is turned that she catches Bifur signing something at Kíli in _iglishmêk_. Kíli’s ears turn red; he kisses the back of Blue’s hand in turn and weaves their fingers together, resting both on his thigh. His look seems to be daring Bifur to laugh. Something warm and viscous pools in her stomach, and Blue bites her lower lip to keep herself from smiling.

“I suppose,” says Blue slowly, “that since His Highness King Thranduil isn’t planning on leaving Mirkwood anytime soon, we could always just send him a letter.”

Kíli perks up at the thought of this. On her other side, Tauriel touches her knee very lightly to Blue’s, and then says, “That may work, if it is adequately marked. Would a raven carry it for us?”

“I don’t see why not.” Blue makes a mental note to collect jerky from the kitchens. It wouldn’t do to have a crotchety raven ‘losing’ a letter like this. “What about Thorin? Should I go first?”

“Together,” says Tauriel, “or not at all. That way if we both die, our prince can mourn us together.”

There’s a scoff from Blue’s right. Tauriel’s lips curl up, and she smirks at Kíli.

“I’ll ask Fíli if Thorin is available to meet with us tomorrow,” says Blue, and sighs a little when Tauriel stiffens next to her. She unweaves her free hand from her knitting project, and strokes two fingers over the inside of Tauriel’s wrist. She doesn’t dare do more with Dwalin and Bifur so close. For all his lack of Westron, Bifur still manages to be the biggest gossip out of the whole of the Company, and there’s already enough buzz about the youngest prince of Erebor and his beaded ladies. “And Lady Dís. The pair of them together, I think, to get it over with.”

Though to be quite frank Dís terrifies Blue more than Thorin ever will. She’s not quite sure why. Maybe it’s because Dís, while being smaller, thinner, and far more svelte than Thorin, still has that same overwhelming presence of _Play with me and I will rip your nails out with a smile_ that all the elder Durins seem to have in spades. She’s not quite sure whether or not to be scared of her or to admire her unendingly for it.

“Does this mean you must send a letter to my prince, as well?” asks Tauriel. She winks at Blue before Kíli notices. “Perhaps if he objects you might challenge him to a contest. I believe that is a dwarrow tradition, is it not?”

“Don’t tease,” says Blue, but her lips are twitching. She lifts a hand to play with the thin triple-braid behind her ear, the one that Kíli puts in every morning. Tauriel’s elf-knot is cool and silvery under her collar.

“Are you saying I couldn’t beat Legolas?” Kíli pouts a little. “It breaks my heart to hear how little faith you have in me.”

“Not in the least,” says Blue. “I’d be the one to challenge him. I’m not royal; I won’t start a blood-feud if I lose. Though what I’d challenge him to, I’ve no idea.”

“Yarn-work,” says Kíli. “Challenge him to yarn-work. He’ll lose before he starts.”

“His Highness is quite gifted with a needle, truth be told,” says Tauriel thoughtfully. “Though I do think the ins and outs of scarf-making may be beyond him, as of yet.”

“A good thing, too,” Kíli adds. “Otherwise we’d all be in trouble.”

She can’t help it. She laughs, covering her mouth with one hand. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Is it ridiculous to be pleased that my partner would be willing to duel for my favor?” says Tauriel lightly, but there’s a burning look in her eyes that makes Blue agreeably flushed. “I do not think so.”

“But— _knitting_.”

“Yarn-work,” says Kíli, and twists one of the braids in his hair. The bead Blue made for him is carved elm; she’s been whittling since she was little, if only for fun, and the design of the elf-knot made Tauriel smile. “It sounds more daring. Or riddles, since you’re good at them. Elves are poets, not riddle-makers. You’d win in an instant.”

She blushes. “You shouldn’t have so much faith in me. I’m not nearly so good at riddles as my little cousins are.”

“Oh?” says Tauriel, and then stands, collecting her things. “Then solve this one, O Riddler. What has two legs, two braids, and is lying in the bed upstairs?”

And with that, she’s gone.

It’s difficult to say which one of them is out of the training room first. Blue thinks she hears Dwalin muttering under his breath as they go. She makes a mental note to blackmail him with Ori later. If Dwalin could spend the whole of the latter half of their Great Quest flirting with a scribe, then he could deal with a saucy riddle or two. Or three. Or nine.

She’ll have to write more. Just for purely scientific purposes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Tauriel gets all hot and bothered at the thought of people fighting for her, what can I say. Even if it's with knitting needles. 
> 
> Also these three are flirty dorks. The end.


End file.
